Park Lane South, Queens

Claire laughed.

“Hmm. You tink dat’s funny. It’s not so funny ven dey won’t let you in peace. Ven dey come from all over the place und interrupt your privacy und even your breakfast to find out if da husband is cheating on dem. Who cares? Once you find out you can do it … it becomes a real hell of a bore, let me tell you dat!” She sank back in her chair, done in by her own vehemence.

“Come on,” Claire said, “I’ll help you carry these things to the kitchen. It’s late.”

“Ja,” Iris got up carefully. “I’m not gonna argue vit you. Und you know vot else?”

“What’s that?”

“If I put da tarot cards away … if I hide dem … und the police come, it vill look vorse for me if dey find dem hidden dan if I chust let dem sit dere in da open.”

So she knew. She’d figured out already that there was going to be a witch hunt. She was even ready for it. The awful thing was that it was Claire herself who’d supplied Johnny with the idea. She patted Iris on her meager arm and carried the tray to the kitchen. It was a harshly lit room, absurdly brisk and clean compared to the casual squalor of the others. The walls were tiled white, much like a hospital operating room except for the relief of one navy blue stripe around the top.

“My liebling room,” Iris’s eyes glittered. “I am in here baking all the morning.”

“No kidding? Every morning?”

“Chust about. Da kids come, you know. I don’t mind dem. Never. So I like to keep da cookie jars full. Dey all have der favorites. Michaelaen likes dat kind you like, the rugelach.”

“Michaelaen comes here?”

“Sure. All da time. Vell, sometimes.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.” Neither, she bet, did Zinnie.

“Chust like Michael used to,” Iris said pointedly, searching Claire’s blue eyes.

Claire leaned against the old porcelain sink. “Do you know what horror is? Not the sureness of death. It’s the uncertainty of life that’s the horror. Not knowing for sure what to do. I always wish there was some way to tell.”

“Ach,” Iris dumped the tea cups into a pool of suds. “Dere is no ‘sure.’ You take a chance. You follow your heart. You know dat.”

“That’s just it. I never do know. How do you know what the heart is trying to say?”

“You have to listen mit it!” Iris yelled at her. “You vant sure, you listen mit brain. Brain is right-left, black-vite. Heart is like a subvay train. You get off any stop you vant to get home. Quick one … march right home. Udder one … maybe takes more time, more valking, but is a more charming route. More trees und flowers along da vay. Dat’s choice. Your choice. Anyvay, eventually, you gonna get back home. How is up to you.” Then Iris hitched up her skirt and started to hum “You gotta have heart.”

“You’re a regular comedian. I feel as though everything’s falling apart all around me … whatever I do goes wrong, whatever I reach for turns sour.”

“Oh, come, come, come. Noting is dat bad.”

“Maybe not. It’s just that nothing goes right.”

“I know von ting. Ven ting’s are going along smoothly, you can be very sure dat you’re not getting anyvhere. Listen to me vell, girl, because dis is as true as true gets. Ven you’re getting a lot of flack, ven everyting you do meets with resistance, den you know dat you are getting close to da source.”

“The source.”

“Ja.”

When Iris walked her out through the foyer, she handed her an umbrella. It was made of paper and sprayed with shellack. When she opened it, it crackled.

“No sense getting vet,” Iris said, “even if it is chust across da street.”

“Okay,” Claire took it gratefully. “This way I’ll have to come back to return it.”

“I’d like dat. As long as you don’t come too often.”

They smiled at each other. “Damn,” said Claire, “now where’s the Mayor gone?”

At the sound of his name, the Mayor bolted from the depths of the pantry. Natasha, Iris’s poodle, followed him out. She was looking very smug. Iris made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “Dat dog. He’s gonna make my Natasha mit puppies. Oh, vell. Gotta have someting to do, eh? At least animals, ven dey’re old and useless, dey can still go out to stud.”

Old and useless? The Mayor flinched visibly. What a rotten thing to say.

Iris, clutching her elbows at the door, seemed to feel the need to temper her words as well. “I remember ven he vas a pup,” she reminisced. “Vay before even Michaelaen vas born. Dit you know he used to catch rats?”

“Yes, my father always talks about it.”

“Strange ting for a dog. Almost unheard of. Und once he caught a thief going into Gussie Drobbin’s house. Caught him by da foot und voodn’t let go!”

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